A freckled finch chirps from behind the callous layers in my heart,
and it gives me such a feeling
that I wish she’d take me with her when she flies.
Whiskey, a quality poison, breaches my beak and does it’s work until my head spins dizzy.
I feel like I might fall.
Maybe I’ll learn to fly on the way down.
Yes, but some birds never learn to fly do they?
I’ll sing instead, sing like a bird with drunken deformed wings fallen from the nest. Hymns of you sung to heaven from hells gate.